


His Hands, A Deadly Weapon

by wyntera



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Peapod McHanzo Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 14:56:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17327108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyntera/pseuds/wyntera
Summary: Day 5 of Peapod McHanzo Week 2019!How can anyone expect Hanzo to work under these conditions?





	His Hands, A Deadly Weapon

**Author's Note:**

> Peapod McHanzo Week 2019! Day Five's prompt: Role Reversal!

There have not been many missions that have made Hanzo nervous. Tense, sure; there have been plenty where the plan involves risky maneuvers, or high stakes that would make anyone feel the anticipation in their bones. But that is just part of the job. One would have to be inhuman to not feel some jitters from time to time—or not, if Zenyatta is to be believed.

Standing in the Orca surrounded by his fellow agents but armed with nothing more than a pistol, Hanzo can admit he is nervous.

Hanzo has been aware for a while that Athena keeps as close if not a closer eye on the Shimada Clan and their shifting allegiances than he and Genji. Not two days ago Winston called the a meeting and dropped a bombshell on the brothers: the previous leader had been assassinated. The man that took his place, a powerful, vengeful man prone to excessive violence, was attempting to reach out to Hanzo for a meeting.

Needless to say, Hanzo and Genji did not take the news well. There had been a very long, very emotional, very loud discussion about what they should do about it, and in the end it was decided that this was most certainly a trap, but an opportunity Overwatch could not pass up. This called for a counter-trap. Unfortunately, the proposed meeting would be at a ritzy outdoor restaurant in a glamorous part of Tokyo, no doubt packed with the upper echelons of society serving as convenient human shields. Getting agents into the space without causing suspicion would be impossible, and the man best-suited to offer ranged support was the focus of the entire mission. Ana was out of contact on her own solo mission with radio silence, so her assistance was out of the question.

Hanzo assumed the plan was a wash, but instead of scrapping the mission Winston had turned to the man lounging against the wall at the back of the meeting room. “McCree?”

The cowboy had tipped his hat back and given a single nod. “I’ll handle it.”

“I wish I could go with you,” Genji says, drawing Hanzo out of his musings. He has switched out his normal gray armor for a darker set, something that will be less noticeable. If all goes according to plan he will never need to draw a blade, but with how dangerous this mission is shaping up to be, Genji insisted on being on the ground. Just in case.

Hanzo adjusts his cufflinks at his wrist, debating whether he should roll them up or leave them down. He has grown accustomed to going without. The dress shirt and leather gloves feel unnatural now. “The clan still believes you are dead. We need to keep it that way.” Even though it makes him itch, Hanzo leaves the sleeves alone. He is not meant to be in combat today, anyway. “Besides, I am the one they are after.”

Genji squeezes Hanzo’s shoulder with a comforting hand. “We will not let them take you, brother.”

“I know,” Hanzo replies, gripping Genji’s metal fingers and returning the hold. He sighs. “I am unused to being so exposed in battle. I prefer to have distance. And my bow.”

“Do not worry. Jesse will take good care of you.”

Right. That brings Hanzo back to the main source of his nervousness. “Are you certain McCree is capable enough for this?”

“Of course,” Genji answers.

The fact that he responds without hesitation should come as comfort, but for some reason it just makes Hanzo more uneasy. “I am aware that he has some training at this range, but it is not his specialty. If he is out of practice…”

Genji emits a soft laugh, like Hanzo being concerned over possibly getting kidnapped or murdered is somehow funny. “Hanzo, there are three people I would trust to keep me safe if I were in your shoes. You are first. Captain Amari is second. Jesse is third. You have nothing to worry about.”

“Alright, everyone,” Winston says, clapping his meaty hands together to gain their attention. “We’re landing in five minutes, so finish getting ready and make sure you have your gear. Where’s McCree?”

“Right here.”

Hanzo turns and his breath catches.

A sharp black hat obscures McCree’s face in shadow, all but the wide curve of his mouth. His serape, equally black and hanging in a clean sweep at his back, stretches the breadth of his broad shoulders. The cowboy boots have been switched out for something more appropriate for traversing the rooftops, heeled and steel-toed. Black leather stretches tight over the curves of his thighs, thick enough to crush a man. To crush Hanzo. McCree is pure danger in a cowboy’s regalia and that alone would be enough to get Hanzo hot under the collar, but to make matters worse, slung over McCree’s shoulder is the most elegant sniper rifle Hanzo may have ever seen.

McCree holds the rifle with an easy grace that only comes from familiarity, like the weapon is but an extension of his own body, like the hefty weight of it means nothing. He brings it down in front of his body in a stance that makes the muscles of his forearms bulge with the movement. “Was just doin’ a final equipment check. I’ll be ready to go.”

“Good,” Winston says. “Everyone be ready to move. We’ve got a limited time to get in position.”

The others scatter to finish their preparations but Hanzo stands at a loss, aware that he’s staring but he can’t seem to stop. McCree notices, of course he does, and he comes closer. Higher brain functions seem to have stopped working. Hanzo tries to pull himself together, at least somewhat, when McCree speaks. “Hey, I just wanted you to know, I’ve got your back out there, alright?” He pats Hanzo once on the arm, leaning the rifle on his shoulder to do so, and how can he lift such a big gun one handed? “I’ll be on the comms. If you think things are goin’ south, you give the order. Don’t wait for Winston. Can’t go losin’ you now, okay?”

Hanzo nods. He can’t stop looking at the way McCree’s hand grips the gun stock. “Where did you get that?” he asks, proud that he managed to get the words out without stumbling.

McCree blinks, then looks at the sniper rifle like he is just realizing it may seem out of place. “Oh, this here’s The Sheriff. Had her a while now. Ain’t she a looker?”

“Y-yes,” Hanzo says. When did his throat get so dry? “I was not aware you could handle firepower like that.”

That wide mouth stretches into a private smile, like McCree has a secret just for him. “There ain’t a lot I can’t handle, darlin’.”

He leaves Hanzo with that food for thought, strolling off to disassemble his rifle and prepare to depart. Which is what Hanzo should be doing instead of staring after him and admiring the shape of his ass in those leather pants. If McCree is half as good as he looks, Hanzo should be fine.

Hanzo forgets about McCree’s ass (alright, not true, he will never forget that image for the rest of his life, but there are more pressing matters to attend to) as he makes his way to the meeting point and nerves set in. The Shimada Clan may be but a shadow of their former selves but a katana can still kill no matter who wields the sword. Dressed in nothing but a business suit, without Stormbow in his hands or a quiver on his back, he feels naked and vulnerable. The hustle and bustle of Tokyo makes it impossible to watch every angle. Noise and lights and people close in on all sides. If he is followed, or there is an ambush, who is to say if he will even have time to draw the pistol hidden beneath his coat? Will he be dead before the other agents even have a chance to react?

_ “McCree here,”  _ comes a voice in his comm, deep and smooth like a shot of whiskey.  _ “I’ve got my eye on you, Hanzo. Just take it slow, you’ve got this.” _

How McCree can simultaneously calm his racing heart and make him shiver with arousal, Hanzo will never understand. The words do the job, though, and he makes his way to the restaurant without issue. He is led to the rooftop dining area, men and women and omnics in expensive clothes drinking and dancing. With all of Tokyo stretched around them, Hanzo feels more isolated than he has since joining Overwatch.

There is a man and an omnic sitting at the VIP table the hostess leads him to, neither of which is the oyabun he was meant to meet. Hanzo knows instantly that the other tables around theirs are all yakuza. Several more linger around the roof. He sees one palm the gun under his jacket; another does a poor job of pretending to mingle and instead stares blatantly at Hanzo.

The man at the table rests a hand on the hilt of a sword. The omnic gestures at one of the empty seats. “Please, join us.”

Hanzo looks at the table to his left, then the one to his right, a silent acknowledgement that he is no fool to their game but is choosing to play it anyway, and sits. “Where is Oshiro?”

“You must forgive us. Mister Oshiro will be joining us shortly,” the omnic says, easy, unconcerned.

“I did not travel all this way to meet with underlings,” Hanzo replies.

Over the comms, Fareeha’s voice seems to come out of nowhere.  _ “There’s movement on the roof. People are leaving.” _

_ “I see it,”  _ McCree replies.

Hanzo feels it too, the change in the atmosphere when a large group migrates. The sound of nice dress shoes and high heels in motion all headed towards the exits. A trap, just as Hanzo assumed, and he walked right into it. He sits still as a stone as the stream flows around it, unmoving, even as his hand aches to go for the hidden gun.

_ “Do not engage,”  _ Morrison says. As far as Hanzo knows, he is watching from far away with nothing but binoculars. His pulse rifle would be useless at that range.  _ “If Oshiro shows up and gets spooked, we might not get another chance.” _

As the quiet descends on the roof, the tension shifts, and Hanzo tilts his head toward the omnic. “Oshiro is not coming, I take it?”

“He said you were smart,” the omnic replies. “But you came here, so maybe, not so smart after all.”

“Perhaps,” Hanzo agrees.

They are twenty stories up. Hanzo could risk the leap, hope to catch a balcony or awning on the way down. Where the table is and its distance to the railing, he would probably get mowed down in a hail of bullets before he makes the run. Fighting is his only option, and his odds aren’t good. 

The moment draws out, stretches thin, a tight string ready to snap.

Hanzo really hoped not to die today.

Just as the man with the sword shifts forward as if to draw the katana, he flies backwards out of his chair, flung clear into the table behind him. The omnic only just registers his partner’s absence when a he takes a shot to the upper body. His head pops free of its socket and is sent bouncing toward the side of the building.

Chaos consumes the rooftop. The yakuza draw their weapons, either pointed at Hanzo or casting around trying to find the source of the shots. Hanzo doesn’t wait to see if they figure it out. He throws the table on its side and ducks behind it just as bullets pepper the surface, missing his back by inches. Behind him three other men hit the ground with the force of distant gunshots, and Hanzo uses the opening to run and vault over a low decorative wall that makes for a more effective cover.

Safer than he was behind the table, Hanzo draws his pistol and peeks out to try and help. But, and Hanzo would be ashamed if forced to admit this, he finds himself mesmerized. The enemies drop fast, clean shots, as steady as the rain. No wails from the injured, no flesh wounds. Hanzo can imagine McCree lying prone on a high rooftop, his cowboy hat keeping the wind from his face, eye down the scope, minute movements of his arms and hands as he tracks from target to target. McCree’s even breaths as he fires on the exhale. His shoulders absorbing the recoil from the rifle, back tensing and releasing. His whole focus on keeping Hanzo alive.

Now is not the time to get turned on.

The cavalry arrives in the form of Fareeha rocketing in to whisk him away, but by then most of the footsoldiers have either fled or fallen under McCree’s sights. Other agents sweep in to clean up the leftover forces, hopefully to capture some for questioning. They may not have gotten Oshiro but they dealt a major blow to the Shimada Clan’s numbers.

When they land Fareeha raises the visor of her helmet, looking concerned and checking for wounds. He blames the flush high on his cheeks on the wind.

Later, after they are in the air, after they debrief and are on the long flight back to Gibraltar, Hanzo looks around but does not see the cowboy. “Where is McCree?”

“Equipment room,” Genji says, settling into a spot in the lounge area of the ship. He shoots Hanzo a knowing look and adds under his breath. “Remember that the doors have locks.”

Damn younger siblings.

McCree is on the floor of the equipment room, his serape underneath him, his hat slung haphazardly on a crate. His legs are spread wide, obscenely wide, and the way his pants cup everything leaves little to the imagination. The disassembled parts of The Sheriff are laid out before him, lined up in the vague shape of a gun. McCree has the bolt of the rifle is in one hand while his other methodically wipes it clean with a soft cloth. He doesn’t look up until Hanzo shuts the door and slides the manual lock into place with a loud click. “Howdy,” McCree says, hands not so much as pausing as they expertly work the metal.

There is only so much a man can take.

Hanzo is on him in an instant. McCree makes a startled noise that is swallowed up by Hanzo’s devouring mouth and needy groan. Whatever questions or hesitation McCree might have had evaporates under the onslaught, and the bolt clinks against the floor when he drops it in favor of dragging Hanzo closer. Climbing onto McCree’s lap is like climbing onto a bucking bronco, but once Hanzo settles there he thinks he might never leave.

Breaking free is a herculean effort, but McCree manages. “Damn, Hanzo”. His lips are red from Hanzo’s teeth. Hanzo likes the look on him, plans to see it more often.

“I need you to touch me,” he growls. His nails drag down McCree’s front, fighting to pull his shirt out of his waistband so he can get to skin. “Now.”

McCree takes the initiative, capturing Hanzo’s mouth in another hard kiss that never seems to end. And Hanzo could melt when McCree finally— _ finally _ —gets his hands where Hanzo wants them. Hanzo arches into McCree’s capable touch, aching at the drag of those rough hands on his skin. They fight over who can get the other’s pants undone first. Hanzo lets out a curse when he is released to the cool air, his length already wet at the tip from the sheer want he has had to endure the past few hours. “McCree,” he groans, finally getting to see what those leather pants have been hiding and happy with what he finds.

“My name.” McCree tucks his face into Hanzo’s shoulder and mouths at taunt muscles there, licking and sucking his way up to his ear. “At least use my name if we’re gonna—”

“Jesse!” Hanzo lets loose a whining moan as McCree gets a hand around them both. He is much too loud, what with the rest of their team just through the wall, but Hanzo could have easily died today and he has never been more turned on in his life, so the rest of the team can stuff it. Gripping McCree by the hair, he yanks the cowboy’s head back up so he can attack those lips once more. “Jesse,  _ yes!” _

The angle is bad, the floor worse, but to Hanzo it’s perfect. He bucks into each stroke, grinds when he can, uncoordinated and uninhibited. Then he can’t do that either as McCree’s metal hand locks down on his hip, holding him in place. All he can do is pant and moan and beg for more, and shatter apart as McCree gives it to him. He muffles his shout of pleasure against the meat of McCree’s shoulder, and McCree follows with a groan of his own against the soft hairs at Hanzo’s temple.

Clinging together in the aftermath, their desperate moans quieting, McCree leans back enough to push the hair out of Hanzo’s face where it came loose of its tie. He looks delightfully disheveled. Hanzo may become addicted. “Not that I’m complainin’, and I am  _ really  _ not complainin’,” Jesse stresses, “but what brought that on?”

Despite everything, Hanzo can still feel heat creep up his face. No use in feigning innocence now. “Your performance today was...inspiring,” he admits.

McCree breaks out into a grin. “You liked that, yeah?”

“Yes.” Hanzo settles his weight onto McCree, delighted that the other man takes it so readily.

“Hope it isn’t just the sniper rifle that does it for you…?” McCree asks.

Hanzo can recognize a leading question. “My feelings existed before today,” Hanzo admits, leaning in to capture McCree’s lips in a kiss that is softer but no less passionate. “The gun is just a bonus.” He can feel the tension slide out of McCree’s shoulders and the other man sighs into the kiss. Contentment.

“Glad to hear we’re on the same page,” McCree murmurs, only breaking the kiss for a moment. He tugs Hanzo with him as he reclines back, back, pushing the parts of the rifle aside so they have more room. It’s a long flight, and they plan to make the most of it.

**Author's Note:**

> If you like that and want more, want to check out my art, or just want to chat, come on by my tumblr! You can find me under username wyntera. And if twitter is more your game, come and join me there, just look for @ThreeCatDesigns. You can now also find me as wyntera on Pillowfort!
> 
> And hey. Thanks.


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